Da Beats

It's the thought that counts?
Maybe.
Either way, it's not each day that you have to ask the judge to 'drop the beat.'
This article explains what I'm talking about.
To surmize, some St. John's hooligan beat the fuck out of some teenage kid.
Then, during sentencing, he apologized by rapping.
"Judge is gonna see my flow. Gonna get off with some community service."
It almost makes him sound even guiltier (if that's possible).
The feel-good image from this story is the expression worn by an entire courtroom of bewildered, mildly disgusted people.
The victim can't smell any more.
That's how badly he beat the shit out of this guy.
"We all know where this violence is gettin' us
Sorry to hear about your detached retinas
My style sizzles like bacon and ham
You can't smell 'em cookin' and I'm sorry again"
Any publicity is good publicity, I guess.

Who's Yer Daddy?

And how is he in bed?
This is an icky one.
Turns out this woman accidentally married her own father.
The rumour was eventually confirmed for her by her uncle (whom she dated in high school).

Qualms for the Poor

My brother refuses to go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary.
Already covered with sores and boils, he will not seek medical attention.
"No, I'm not going to no doctors.
As soon as you go to see the doctor there's something wrong with you."
He really believes this.
Namely, that if you visit the doctor, you are willingly inviting illness.
Ignorance is not only bliss, but is also quite important to your well-being.
This is his stance.
And maybe he's right.

SARS isn't back.
Luckily for two hundred people out of however many billion we're at, SARS is still out of style.
The Space Hog of diseases, SARS came and went before its time.
Now, sometimes it'll be remembered when everyone is intoxicated to the point of nostalgia at an off-campus party.
"Remember SARS?"
"Fuck yeah, I had their album!"
We are all, presumably, safe.
Except for one man in the UK, within whom a whole new flash-in-the-pan virus has been found.
Our inability to be empathetic really comes in handy at a time like this.
"Poor guy," you utter around your McMuffin.
Probably.
He's probably a poor guy.
Depends on how keen this virus happens to be.
In Newfoundland, if someone is referred to as 'poor', it doesn't mean they're broke.
It means they're dead.
"I'll tell you who else drove a Skylark: poor Gus...whoever."
Gus' surname doesn't matter.
Gus is dead
(there is no Gus).
These are the sorts of conversations my parents have, by the way.
Those looking forward to the pinnacle of their marriages, this is what it sounds like.
Of course, it could be worse.
You too could be poor.
Like this poor bastard in the UK.
It's one thing to have a bad day.
Having a newsworthy disease discovered on your person is a different bird entirely.
Maybe it's a bird flu.
Anyway. The point is, get your shots.
You can read the details here.
The BBC's advice on avoiding this disease is to go about your day as you were.

A Close Shave

This post was in fact originally written in April of this year. 
It was never posted because I was concerned that my seeming lack of sensitivity contained within would complicate my search for sex. 
At least, I think that's why I didn't post it. 
It was April, after all. I can't really remember back that far. 
But it certainly seems like a likely motivation. 
I'm having sex now, so I'm no longer conflicted. 
Err...proceed: 

Sometimes I can still surprise myself.
This story will be irritating to type out, but here we go.

Del was in town.
Now, you don't know who Del is, but that's okay.
He's a great man.
Has a valley bulldog named Floyd.
He recently got himself a pair of loafers, which is what I have been thinking about buying for my own feets lately.
On this particular night he said, "I never thought shoes could be like this."
That's how excited he is about his new footwear.
They were amazing
(edit: I've since bought a pair of the exact same model of shoes).
None of this matters.
In fact, Del doesn't even really require mentioning to tell this story.
But sometimes it's nice to get new people involved.
We'll let him know that he's in here.
He watched me punch Josh in the face one time.
Josh is more important to the story.

Nostalgia.
Weed.
Del leaves.

Josh and I go to The Lion's Head for karaoke.
They elected to bypass a comedy night there in favour of a third (third!) weekly karaoke night.
Which immediately made sense when we got there.
People everywhere.
We grab a table with some wasted woman and Michelle.
It was Michelle's birthday.
She also isn't important to this story.
And I don't know her last name.
But I'm sure that she's important to someone.
She wants to have a baby soon.
Anyway!
Josh and I go to get some beer.
We run into four women who are together.
Fun-loving and not interested in fitting in, one of them is doubled over in the middle of the room.
The others are yammering and cajoling.
They're being loud, but it's largely going unnoticed in the loud bar.
Turns out she has the hiccoughs.
Her friend with the hideous haircut explains this to us.
The 'do sort of has a punk thing going on. Mid-eighties, maybe (I don't know).
It's all shaved on one side.
We make chitchat and then Josh and I have the same conversation about women we've been having for a decade.
Hiccoughs come over and starts rubbing Josh's face (cause he has a beard, I guess).
Josh isn't impressed because he wouldn't be impressed by someone doing that.
And I could tell he wasn't attracted to Hiccoughs immediately.
I assume that I'm not either.
But I'm bothered that she's paying attention to Josh and not myself.
I'm the interesting one.

Time marches on.

We go back for more beer.
Haircut is there with another friend or two.
Now, bear in mind that she started it.
Haircut asks Josh if he wants to commit suicide like her.
Which is odd, isn't it?
Now, she's not saying this Criminal Minds.
It's more jovial than that.
She's just fucking around.
But still.
Who says that to someone?
Like rubbing his face, Josh isn't impressed, and mutters a response.
Feeling responsible, I say, "Not as much as you do, probably."
She giggles and says, "Yeah, I want to commit suicide pretty badly."
So I say, "That explains the haircut."
...
Then Josh makes this face and noise that suggest I shouldn't have said that out loud.
And Haircut is angry.
Silent from then on, we go and sit.
They're at a nearby table, and I squeamishly watch as Haircut recounts the story to Hiccoughs.
Mouth agape, Hiccoughs locks eyes with me (during the punchline, presumably).
Feeling responsible, she picks up a beer bottle and approaches me.
I tell Josh that if she hits me with it he's going to have to do something about it.
I really do think that she's maybe going to pour this beer over my head.
Instead, she tells me that I don't know how to talk to women and that my hair is stupid, too.
But then we kept talking and she ended up being hilarious.
She eventually got over it.
"She asked my buddy if he wanted to commit suicide. Come on."
Then she stuck around because I was being really charming.
Before she went back to the others (after about 20 minutes) I made her admit that the joke was funny.
By the end of the evening, Haircut was hugging me and apologizing for...I'm not sure what, exactly.
Hiccoughs and I refused to give our phone numbers to one another.
In the end, it was neat to offend a group of people so thoroughly and then fix it.

Mostly, I just wanted to tell you the haircut line.

Sexual. Prisoner.

He's one of these guys who's all eyebrows, y'know what I mean?
I just wanted to conduct some video game business at the video game store.
No different from any other retail job (and in several ways worse), EB Games can slowly rot one's soul.
I always try to avoid this guy who works there.
At a glance I can tell he's the store's manager. At a glance.
All eyebrows.
The sort of person who frowns so much that trying to look "okay" or "fine" seems visibly painful.
Pissy. Just constant, sour, everyday pissiness.
Pissy one day. Pissy the next day. Pissy at every turn.
That's this guy.
I always try to be cordial to EB guys because I know how much the job sucks.
Though he doesn't deserve it (he doesn't), I try the same with him.
It's just considerably more difficult, which is why I avoid him.
Anyway, the point is, we do our dealings, and he's just so contrary.
Like, if someone were to try and hug him at that moment, he'd mumble "No" and try to shake them off.
Grabbing the goods, I wheel and say under my breath, "Jesus Christ, buddy, you need to get laid."
It has been about 48 hours, and I'd bet that he still needs to get laid.
I'd also wager that his facial expression hasn't changed since, either (I mean that).
Like the dolphin and the swine, we need sex.
The great equalizer, sex resets all of our emotional modems, I would think.
We all know this, of course.
But in a sense, we're all prone to forgetting it, too.
It's only after the side plates are in shards on the floor and we're holding damp clothes to fat lips that we realize:
"Hey, I think we just needed some sex there."
I had this really vivid dream about being in prison last night.
It felt disturbingly Oz-like.
Oz Group Showers.
Not Oz Tin Man.
The food was bad, they wouldn't let me keep my cell phone, I couldn't communicate with loved ones.
And worst of all? They wouldn't let me out.
Brian Aylward was a fellow inmate, and, as in real life, he acted as a conduit for deliberate, brutal logic.
Mentoring me through the concept of fighting someone (so that I wouldn't be established as a 'bitch'), he was there to provide the only advice available.
Today I've been left to wonder if this was a subconscious metaphor for my comedy 'career.'
If that were the case, George Price would be the guy I'd barter with for cigarettes.
And Steve Coombs would be the warden's daughter.

Why Weight?

Convince her to (finally) try anal.
It's Friday.

**WARNING PUSSIES: THIS POST CONTAINS THE 'N' WORD**

A breakup is the exact moment that two people get to know each other.
Frig, this place is always full of children.
Every day there are children clamoring all over this coffee shop.
Wouldn't bother me, but they always drag their parents along with them.
Alright.
Where are we, here?
Let's get organized.
Food for thought? Sure, I've got it.
My roommate and lover (two separate people) insist that I 'fret' over my meals.
I concern myself with what I'm going to eat and when I'm going to eat it.
I line up all the particulars of my three daily meals a night in advance.
Not generally my style.
That being said, we're not talking whiteboards, here.
We're not talking food schedules ("Spaghetti on Thursday!").
But I suppose it's true.
I do sort of obsess over what the next meal is going to be.
After dwelling on it a bit, I've concluded on a possible motive for this.
Maybe I ploy over my meals because they're the only events I experience in a day.
Think I might try to get a job.
Like, a real one.
Well, not a real one, per se.
Just one that has a schedule.
There's that, and, y'know...I lost five pounds.
My losing five pounds is sort of like a normal person losing whatever amount it takes for them to reach 135 pounds. 
I'm back up to where I belong now, thanks.
A safe Turpin weight (when  she's not full of babies, that is).
All-Sumo diet.
A fish stew and beer.
That's all I consume.
They treat the lower dan guys like cattle, y'know.
Far from the WWE, these guys have to really pay their dues to reach the top.
Did you know that Yokozunas have special vestments that they wear publicly to denote their sumo status?
They're huge celebrities.
Sure, they have a lifespan of about 45 years, but it's my understanding that they fuck a lot of women.
Any athlete would tell you that that's a good deal.

So, I don't wish to talk smack, but I have to mention the new living situation.
It's about the same as the old living situation, but there's a new roommate.
Seems like a good guy so far.
...
...
It's just that, well, I was living with one dude who was a little beefy up around the noggin.
And that's fine.
Now, however, it's sort of...well, there's two.
I'm sure they'll work out.
Because I'm in the midst of a project in which I convince myself that they'll work out.
Preparing for one of my usual wayward constitutionals, the new one bid farewell by saying:
"Enjoy the fuckin' walk, son!"
Now. There's no need to make a big deal out of this.
It's positive, y'know?
That's a positive thing to say.
I just don't know how to respond to something like that.
Anyway, I'm a modern man and I'm going to roll with it.
It's like Napoleon always said, "If you can't beat 'em, outdo 'em."
Of course, Napoleon said it in French.
We're passed the tricorner hat, but I can certainly get some FUBU caps.
Trimmed with graffiti-style writing that doesn't actually say anything.
Loose jogging pants.
I'm going to listen to lots of music that has the word "nigger" in the lyrics.
Eat my cereal with Cretin.
Start fights with guys simply because I have made eye contact with them in a bar.
I'm going to show these guys who the real numb skull is.
I'll see you on the other side.

Writer's Cock

Uh oh.
This can't be a good sign.
When I sit and I stare at my keyboard, wondering what I could possibly talk about, it generally spells a stink post.
A real bellyflop of writing.
When I was in grade whatever, we were supposed to write some story for Thanksgiving.
Knowing what I now know, I understand that this was grade three (think it was three) busywork.
What an insult to education and humanity in general, by the way.
Busywork.
The word alone makes the spittle froth about my lazy jaw.
Work's bad enough.
No one needs work for the sake of doing work.
This is why I could never work in HR.
I almost applied for an HR job at the hotel.
Pretty weird.
I could have gotten the position, probably.
Moving around within a hotel is easy after you've punched some time.

HR (unlikely) Pros:

1. I would have gotten to wear a suit every day.
2. I would have been paid more.
3. I would never again have to extract brocolli stems or broken glass from a drain.
4. Free recruitement trips to Australia (that was the big one).

HR Cons:

1. I'd have to frequently smile illegitimate smiles.
2. I'd no longer be able to look myself in the eye.
3. I wouldn't have been able to steal food so readily.
4. I'd be working in HR.

I'm here now, so none of this matters.
Anyway, it was grade three busywork, likely organized solely because my teacher at the time had found lined sheets of paper shaped like a turkey.
I wrote some...thing that spanned 20-something of those turkey sheets.
I think mom still has the original manuscript.
Because my mom is the relic keeper.
That was then.
Full of promise. Wonder.
Words, apparently.
Now here I am.
Old. Broken down.
Hairy.
Even back then I had such a desire to write, with no limitations due to all of these silly adult fears.
Now, I worry about being able to fill the turkey sheets, and I hate that.
I once wrote in one of my ass-pocket books:
I never thought, "this isn't good enough" about something I wrote until I started doing comedy. 

edit: When the title popped into my head, I thought, "Oh, this post was worth it after all."
Took me a second to remember that roosters have sex with chickens, not turkeys.
I'm going to keep it up there anyway, okay?
Because it was inches from being really clever, instead of what it is now:
Nonsensical.

Jurrasic Lark

I'm sad, everyone.
Well, I'm not sad, but I'm certainly contrary.
I'm not contrary, really.
Ever have a day in which you can't figure out how you feel, you just know that you don't feel well?
I'm like that.
I'm not really like that.
I'm kidding. Yes I do.
I probably haven't been sleeping enough.
I might be spending too much time in the sauna.
Too wrinkly.
Too sweaty.
Do you get wrinkly in a sauna?
I know, I know.
I'm getting too personal again.

That guy who looks like me is in cahoots with myself to open a comedy room.
Don't tell anyone.
I hadn't intended to tell you, in fact.
The only reason I do so is because one of the venues we considered serves tacos.
Dave: Tuesdays is fifty cent tacos. Pretty sweet.
People could be coming by and getting tacos, checking out jokes.
Me: Yeah...tacos are distracting though. They have a lot of crunch to them.
You can't hear fuck all over tacos.
Dave: They might be soft shell!

My sex partner, the ol' ball 'n chain, as she likes to be called, has been running her yap again.
Says she's not in the blog enough.
Which is sort of true.
If we are to consider the amount of time we spend together, grossing out the locals, I guess she's right.
She once mentioned that some people don't believe in dinosaurs.
"Isn't that interesting?"
I guess I just stared at her blankly because she followed that with, "Don't worry; I believe in dinosaurs."
She said I looked incredibly relieved to hear it.
She met my Aunt Barb and they hit it off immediately.
I suspected as much since they have tremendously similar interests.
As I watched them discuss one of Barb's rug hookings, I felt an overwhelming sense of this weird pride.
A sort of "you'd want to take her home to meet your mother" kind of pride.
The fact that she has similar hobbies to that of a sixty-year old woman?
Didn't even bother me.

When people ask me if I have seen this movie or that movie, I always have to explain:
I don't really bother with movies any more.
Which is true.
Sure, I had a copy of Die Another Day on VHS.
Despite this, my movie days are done.
I consider them to be a relative waste of time.
I have games to play.
I mention this as well, and I can see that some people find it odd that I'm still playing video games.
Which is okay with me.
Frankly, I find it odd that people are still watching movies.

A Leg Up

I suppose we're all prone to sore losership at some point in our lives.
I have a feeling spellcheck is going to call me on 'losership.'
Anyway.
It's possible for any of us to balk another's success.
Especially if we bet a whole bunch of money on ourselves.
Though not accused of gambling, this guy IS accused of being a bit of a fussy Gus after passing the ticker tape.
Yes, we can all be a sore loser under the right circumstances.
But perhaps we'd be even more susceptible if we had no legs.
Like these guys.

See, one dude is accusing the other dude of having too-long prosthetics.
Despite the fact that he himself (his name is Oscar) uses his pretend legs against whole men.
And he's the only paralympian who gets to do that.
Politics.
These races always beget so much politics.
Give me the Special Olympics any day.
You go out there and have a nice swim.
Make some friends, and everyone gets a tote bag for participating
Given this liberty, you'd think that Oscar would be keen to draw less attention to himself.
Tough enough as it is, given that he looks like an extra from I, Robot on race day.
Fuck, you just can't make jokes about anything fun.
How many of you found that offensive?
No fair.
I make fun of countless ethnicities, societies and accountants on this blog.
If that mockery is okay, this has to be too.
Oscar only gets the wrath because he's in today's headlines and I needed something to talk about.
Besides, I don't care for sore losers.
They make us regular loses look bad (worse).

I should tell you about this band before they're Gotye and no one gives a shit anymore.
They're British and I think they're great.
They just need a band name that isn't based on a keystroke.